


Reflex

by taylor_tut



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Badass Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Badass North (Detroit: Become Human), Connor & Markus (Detroit: Become Human) Friendship, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Whump, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Gen, Hank Anderson & Connor Friendship, Hurt Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Hurt/Comfort, Protective Hank Anderson, Protective Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Whump, Worried Hank Anderson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 13:31:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15414021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylor_tut/pseuds/taylor_tut
Summary: After becoming a deviant, Connor has his first brush with severe injury, but without being able to feel and with the Cyberlife damage alert programs being deleted from his system, Connor doesn't know he's injured until it's almost too late. Hank takes him to Jericho for more blue blood, and that's where Markus and the rest of the deviant crew offer a solution: a mesh wiring "sensory nervous system," sensitive to pressure and temperature and connected under Connor's skin, which would transmit damage alerts directly to Connor's own processors. Once it's installed, he should only notice it when he needs to, but the intensity of the installation is indescribable.Pain. They're offering him pain. And, in true "human" spirit, there are no alternatives.





	Reflex

Connor watched as Hank stood from where he’d pushed him down, dusting off his pants with a grimace. He hadn’t wanted to have to shove him so abruptly, but the anti-android protester had come from seemingly nowhere and started firing shots before Connor really had a moment to think through scenarios or run odds past “Hank gets shot, 100% chance that’s bad; Hank gets pushed out of the way, 100% chance he’ll live to bitch about it later.” He looked fine, if grumpy, but Connor needed to make sure.

“I’m sorry I had to push you, Lieutenant,” Connor apologized, “are you injured in any way?”

Hank groaned and rolled one shoulder, wincing at the popping noises it made. “I’m gonna fuckin’ feel this in the morning,” he grumbled, “but nah. And what have I told you about callin’ me Lieutenant? It’s not even accurate anymore; we’re off the force.” 

Connor himself was still on the ground, and Hank offered him a hand up. He didn’t take it--he didn’t need it—but the gesture was comforting. Upright, he felt a bit lightheaded, which made his visual field grey out for a moment before he blinked away the obstruction. Hank took a big breath in and released it; he was stressed, Connor knew. 

**[x] Scan Hank**

**^^^WARNING^^^ Blood pressure: 168/95**

**^^Pulse rate: 121 bpm**

**\---Respiration: 99%SpO2**

“Hank,” Connor called, falling in step behind him as he walked to the car, “I suggest a relaxing activity to ease your stress levels. Would you consider a slow, calming walk?” 

Hank laughed out loud, brisk and sharp. His vitals were relaxing a bit already. 

“Fuck that zen shit,” he shut him down, “you know where I go to let off steam.” 

Connor bit his bottom lip to keep from arguing. Hank’s vitals were presently a more pressing concern than the function of his liver, so he’d wait until after a beer or two to suggest that he not drink so much. 

“Connor?” Hank prompted, and he shook himself from his thoughts to find that his hand was reaching toward the door handle but not quite touching it, and that he’d been standing there like that for a significant moment. “You coming, or is this some kind of protest for temperance?” 

Connor shook his head to clear the fogginess from it. “Coming, Hank,” he said, plastering on a reassuring, small smile. 

 

The car ride to the bar felt longer than it normally did. It was late at night, nearing last call, so Connor knew that Hank was likely speeding to ensure he could get in two rounds of drinks rather than just one before the bartender cut him off, but still, something about the passage of time felt off. 

“You’re quiet,” Hank pointed out. A benign accusation; from anyone else, it may have even just been an observation to make conversation, but not Hank. Hank didn’t speak just for the sake of conversation--he avoided it when he could. 

**===========RESPONSE============**

**var Response = input()**

**[X] Combative**

**[O] Apologetic**

“I’m sorry,” Connor replied, unsure what Hank wanted him to say. 

Hank shrugged. “Not mad at ya,” he said flippantly, “just wondering what you’re thinking about.”

“I’m not—”

“Cut the shit, Connor; I can hear the gears in your head grinding from here. Plus, there’s heat practically pourin’ off ya.” 

Illogically, dangerously, worryingly illogically, Connor pressed a hand to his own forehead to assess the heat and, of course, found that he couldn’t feel the difference. He pulled his hand back, embarrassed, but when he glaced to Hank, it didn’t appear that he’d noticed anything amiss. 

Connor blinked a few times. His eyes felt strange, sort of scratchy when he blinked, and his eyelids were heavy. The car slowed to a stop in the parking lot of the bar and he found that he didn’t want to get out. 

“I think I’m… tired,” Connor replied. Hank smirked.

“That makes two of us,” he agreed. However, his jovial tone dropped as he looked over Connor more critically, taking in his slumped posture and relative pallor. “You sure you’re up for this?” he asked, gesturing behind him to the bar. “We can head home, if you’d rather—”

“—No,” Connor curtailed, shaking his head vigorously, “I’m fine. This is what humans find relaxing, right? Well, now that I’m a deviant, maybe I can find it to be relaxing, as well.”

Hank’s face lit up. “Does that mean you’re finally gonna drink with me?” he asked hopefully. He’d been begging Connor to try it since they’d quit the DPD, despite Connor’s reassurances that he wouldn’t be able to get drunk, not the way humans do. 

Connor shook his head. “Absolutely not,” he stood firm, “but I may try… shooting pool?”

Hank clapped a hand over his shoulder as he got out of the car. 

“Baby steps, kid; I’ll take it.” 

Connor, once he sat down next to Hank, found that he did  _ not _ want to play pool. The bar was warm, crowded with the sort of quiet murmur of many unintelligible conversations that was making him sleepy. He needed to charge, he knew that, but by his last check, he was still several hours from serious shutdowns in power saving mode, so why was he feeling like he didn’t have all his faculties?

“I’ll have a whiskey, neat,” Hank ordered when the bartender approached them, “and a round of darts for my partner.” 

The bartender ducked down to grab the darts, but Connor shook his head and held out a hand in protest. 

“No, thank you, Hank,” he said, “I don’t want to play.”

“Come on, Connor,” Hank said, nudging him in the side, “lighten up a little. I know you hate this place, but can’t you try to have a little fun?”

Connor’s vision was starting to get a bit foggy, like there was static in his optical sensors, and his hearing was sort of muffled. Hank had offered something, wanted him to do something. 

“I’m just tired,” Connor maintained, shoving the darts away as the bartender placed them in front of him. 

“Hey, you paid for ‘em already; not my problem if he doesn’t wanna use ‘em,” the bartender told Hank, who muttered insults under his breath as he closed his tab. 

“We’re leaving, anyway,” Hank tried one more time, “so why don’t you just show me what you’ve got while I finish this last drink?” 

He pressed the darts into Connor’s palm, but he didn’t close his fingers around them to grasp, and they fell to the floor. Hank glared—Connor could be so stubborn sometimes. 

“What the fuck, Connor?” he bit. “You said you wanted to relax, so you don’t have to be a prick about it.”

Connor cringed at that word. Gavin used that word, and Gavin hated him. Does Hank hate him? The room was really bright all of a sudden and he couldn’t see much. Still, he wanted to do whatever would make Hank not angry with him anymore, and something told him that involved the darts. 

**var friendHank = input()**

**[X] Pick up darts**

**[O] Ppcik Up dARtSs**

**!!!ERROR!!!**

**< unknown> =!!#%#%#%#!!**

**var conserveThirium = input([X])**

**[X] Power down**

**[O] Power down**

**[X] P#i%Cck (p d@Rt$s**

Hank was still taking. Fuck. 

“Connor?” Hank asked, shaking his shoulder slightly. “Fine, kid; you’re that tired, you don’t gotta play. You’re glitchin’ out a little.” 

Connor bent down to pick up the darts and hit his knees hard, sending new signals of static through his vision. 

**ANALYZE: THIRIUM 310**

**MODEL: RK800**

His? It was a big pool. Big pool blue blood under his chair. Made sense. If it were his blood, it’d be under his chair. How’d he lose so much?

“Hey, I didn’t mean to yell at ya,” Hank clarified when Connor stayed on the ground for too long without saying a word. “I just—Connor?!” 

Hank’s voice was closer. 

**[x] Scan Hank**

**^^^WARNING^^^ Blood pressure: 172/96**

**^^Pulse rate: 133 bpm**

**\---Respiration: 99%SpO2**

Connor was tired, and when Hank tugged at him to get him to stand, he flopped into his lap. 

“Fuck; fuck, son, don’t do this to me here,” he mumbled. “Where’d all this fuckin’ blood come from? It’s everywhere—look at me, damn it.” Hank was cursing, but his tone was gentle, concerned. 

Connor shook his head. Too loud. When he glanced down at his body, through wobbling, fuzzy vision, he could see a massive pool of blue in the white shirt, hidden by his black jacket. 

“M’not connected to Cyberlife support anymore,” Connor explained, cringing at how weak his voice sounded. Power conserving mode was beginning, setting up preset parameters he had no control over, including volume and LED illumination limitations, diminished senses, and stilling of movement. His thirium levels must really be approaching critical. “Must’ve—the fight, but I didn’t…”

“We deleted Cyberlife's damage alerts; you didn’t feel it,” Hank finished for him. Connor nodded. “Jesus, fuck. Okay. How bad is it?”

Connor pressed a hand to the wound for just a second and pulled it away covered in blue. Hank’s face paled and Connor was sure his blood pressure probably increased even further, but he didn’t have the energy to scan him again. He fished around the wound and found it to be perfectly round. 

“Bullet,” Connor slurred, reaching inside his metal frame for the thirium artery that was severed and pinching it shut. It only took a moment’s pressure to close the tube and stop the bleeding, but he needed more thirium, quickly and desperately. 

“I shoulda checked you over,” Hank cursed himself, “I knew this could happen.” He took a single deep breath to get his head on straight. “Okay, we’ve got one bag of blue blood at home. Is that enough?”

Connor shook his head. “Gonna need at least three,” he said quietly. “One won’t… won’t even affect…mmph…” He trailed off, his forehead hitting Hank’s shoulder for a second before jerking away and awake. 

“Stay awake,” Hank commanded, his tone authoritative and upset. Angry? Scared? God damn, Connor was just beginning to be able to understand the basic color wheel of human emotions, only to discover that they’re almost exclusively felt in blends and amalgams. One switch flips another, and before they know it, humans are feeling everything they’ve got. 

And Connor was feeling nothing. Hank hauled him to his feet, where he swayed and nearly collapsed again. 

“You gotta help me out here, Connor,” he strained through clenched teeth. “You’re too heavy for me to carry.”

“Trying,” he replied, because it was true. “Havin’ a hard time.”

“I know; try harder,” Hank demanded. They managed to get to the car, where Connor slumped into the passenger seat as if he had no metal frame in him at all. “I’m calling Markus to warn him we’re on our way. Can you hold out?”

Connor closed his eyes.

**SHUTDOWN IMMINENT: 00:01:03:43**

“If you drive fast,” Connor said. 

 

Hank had never driven so fast in his life. It was a shitty time not to have flashers and a siren or even just a police badge to brandish if he did get pulled over, but he managed to make the whole drive to Jericho without incident. Connor was unconscious, had been the whole trip, but his LED was still a faint pink, so Hank knew he hadn’t shut down yet. He exited the car and hoped the slamming of the door would wake him up, but frowned when he got to the passenger door to find it hadn’t.

“Connor,” Hank called, shaking his shoulder, “hey; kid, wake up. You’re fine, I see that LED still lit up.” Cole had made Hank an expert detective in the “pretend to be sleeping so dad will carry me out of the car” game. 

Connor muttered something into the seatbelt.

“What was that?” Hank asked, leaning over him to unbuckle his seatbelt. “You’re gonna have to speak up.”

Connor fell forward without the seatbelt, and Hank pushed him back against the seat, ushering Markus and a female android Hank had never met to the car. 

“Hank, Connor,” Markus greeted simply, no nonsense to his tone. Hank wrestled Connor out of the car with minimal help from Connor and slung one of his arms over his shoulders, allowing Markus to take the other, lifting him to his feet and practically dragging him inside the building.

“Sorry for doin’ this to you, Markus,” Hank apologized, “but he’s in really bad shape.”

Markus nodded. “No, I’m glad you called. We can fix him up. North, can you—”

“—I already took out the blue blood,” she said, “and got a workspace ready for you. Everything’s decontaminated from potential interference and ready to work with.”

Hank frowned. “Work with?” he parroted. “What are you talking about; he just needs some thirium and he’ll be good as new, right?” He glared daggers into Markus, stopping where he stood and tugging at Connor protectively. “Do you know somethin’ I don’t, Markus?”

He shook his head adamantly. “Of course not; believe me, my goal is the same as yours, here—to get Connor back on his feet. But…”

Hank had reluctantly began fast-walking once more into the building, still slightly distrusting of their conspiracy tones, but knowing that time was of the essence. “‘But’ what?”

Markus lay Connor down on the crude, makeshift bed that North had set up, a worktable with a sheet and a pillow. Comfortable enough, for an android. 

“Blue blood, Simon, please,” Markus instructed softy, tipping the first bag into Connor’s mouth while Hank and North supported his body upright and held his mouth open. While the blue liquid poured in, Markus didn’t look away, watching as North repeatedly pressed a soft spot under Connor’s jaw that temporarily opened the throat. The suckling reflex, one of the only things humans are born knowing how to do and one of the only things androids couldn’t learn. 

He pressed his lips tightly together for a second before he spoke again. “But,” he repeated, “if we let him go, this is just going to keep happening. Cyberlife was the brainstem of the androids, and without it, half of their sensory perception means absolutely nothing.”

“What are you saying?” Hank asked suspiciously. One bag drained, Markus opened the next one and repeated the process, watching with some relief as Connor’s eyes opened, though they didn’t focus, and he started to swallow of his own accord, no longer needing North to force the motion. 

“Taking control means being entirely self sufficient, and taking our self-preservation into our own hands,” North said, sensing that Markus wasn’t going to have the heart to say anything more, not in front of Connor. Markus reached for her hand across the table, across Connor, a reminder to tread gently, one she rarely heeded. “It means knowing when injuries occur and having the reflexes to avoid damaging situations.”

Hank nodded, tightening his grip on Connor when he began to twitch, a sure sign he was waking up, at least a little, and surely not remembering where he was or how he got here. Anxiety and fear, self-preservation instincts, the ones that told a human to get the fuck out of danger, but only that danger which had already been identified. When he’d been shot, Connor hadn’t noticed, and therefore hadn’t been able to take steps to fix it. Hank knew what she was going to say before she said it.

“Connor needs to be able to feel pain. We can help.” 


End file.
